


Turnabout

by wheel_of_fish



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Married Sex, Masturbation, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-07
Updated: 2018-03-07
Packaged: 2019-03-28 03:10:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13894980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_of_fish/pseuds/wheel_of_fish
Summary: Erik has evaded Christine's touch for two weeks now, and she will not stand for it any longer. Leroux AU; oneshot.





	Turnabout

The evening performance of Verdi's _Nabucco_ closes to roaring applause, but the clamor cannot outmatch the thunderous pounding in Christine's head and heart as she walks off the stage.

"I am feeling a bit under the weather," she informs the stage manager, "and I shall not be able to receive any visitors this evening." At the flash of panic in his eyes, she adds, "But I am certain that I will be quite refreshed after a good night's rest."

Oh, how she hates to fib—her stomach is churning even now—but tonight, she simply cannot bear the effort required to charm her devotees and patrons. She needs all of the energy that she can muster, for she has tasked herself with a sole important purpose: to seduce the Opera ghost.

Her mind still replays his frantic proclamation from their argument this morning: "To knowingly bring a child into this world, when that child may suffer even a fraction of what I have suffered—oh, it would be a sin, Christine! A curse on an innocent babe!"

She is no fool, and no stranger to her husband's spates of angst and guilt; she has been well aware that this is why he stopped coming to bed these past two weeks, and why he evaded her touch, following a fraught few days in which she thought that she might be with child. But to hear it directly from his lips: _oh_ , that stung. Hours later, her insides still smolder where his words scorched a path straight to her heart.

She knows that she let her frustration affect her performance, and that it displeases him when she lets her worries infiltrate her work. But was not her portrayal of Abigaille more fiery, more captivatingly ambitious than ever? No doubt that it shook him to his core where he lurked and listened in Box Five. Perhaps that is what emboldens her now, for under no ordinary circumstance would she consider what she is about to attempt.

In her dressing-room, she shuts the door with more force than is necessary and locks it. Her gaze falls on the full-length mirror: the very one through which Erik first materialized, so many months ago, from the bodiless voice of an angel to the tormented skeleton of a man—one who might have been willing to kill or be killed, she suspects, had it meant that he would earn the barest scrap of her affection.

Fortunately, it did not come to that. Still, how very fragile his emotions were during their courtship! For all his declarations of love and devotion, it seemed as though he never quite allowed himself to believe that the things he desired most might one day be his. Once they _did_ come to pass, he hovered somewhere between manic excitement and blubbering gratitude. To toss in any consideration of the future would have upturned that delicate balance.

Therefore, it made sense, at the time, that he did not once entertain the possibility of future procreation: not while he pursued her hand, nor when she accepted his ring, nor when the pair of them signed the marriage record in front of the Persian and a city official.

The same could be said for the hours following the wedding, when Erik wept to learn that his new bride intended to consummate the marriage. As though Christine would have demanded otherwise! Her poor, ridiculous husband. If anything, his self-loathing made her _more_ determined to lie with him, so that he might stop shrinking from her touch.

It was a brief consummation, of course, with both parties hindered by anxiety and inexperience. Afterward, she held his head to the crook of her neck, stroking ashen wisps of hair as he peppered her throat with both kisses and tears. "You are too good," he whimpered against her skin, "too good to Erik."

The second time was marginally better: less discomfort for her, and fewer tears on his part. Christine began to understand the mechanics of the act, such that—coupled with the knowledge of her own intimate anatomy—she became convinced that pleasure was attainable, a fact that seemed to be disputed among the more experienced women that she knew.

She began to seek more from him: new places to touch, new methods of exploration, new angles that might increase friction. She touched him first, and with great tenderness, so that he might learn how to reciprocate. When his gaunt fingers and thin lips finally began to seek out bare flesh, she helped him there, too—with subtle shifts of her body meant to direct his attentions, or little moans and whimpers to signal her approval. Awkward and skittish though he is, her husband has a mind built for memorization. He filed away every detail of their lovemaking, his brain underlining the most useful passages and evoking them for later use.

She shudders now to recall the night when he first brought her to the brink of pleasure, leaving both of them stunned and giddy. She imagines his cool hands against her bare skin, and then his cool _thighs_ against her bare skin, and she must bite her lip to curb the desire that bubbles up hot in her breast.

One by one, she extracts the pins that secure her perfectly coiffed hair, until it tumbles over her back and shoulders in tousled blonde ringlets, just as she knows Erik prefers. She prays that he is watching from behind the mirror. It is his custom to wait there after a performance while she changes behind the screen in her room.

Tonight, however, she will not undress behind a barrier.

In the two months since their nuptials, she has come to cherish her husband's physical presence more than she ever thought possible. Just as she grew accustomed to another body next to hers at night—to fingertips combing through her hair, to a hand gently splayed across her hip, to lips fluttering at her brow as airily as moths' wings—he snatched this new comfort away from her.

For two weeks now, he has evaded their physical intimacy, save for the furtive kisses exchanged as greetings and farewells. Perhaps it is not so difficult, she thinks, for a man who has largely been denied human contact to revert back to the way that things have always been.

But Christine? She will not give up so easily. She is a blushing spring blossom that has only begun to unfurl its lush petals and soak in what the sun has to offer. She has yet to reach full bloom, to revel in her newfound womanhood. It is this yearning that led her to confront him this morning, after a fortnight of quietly swallowing her disappointment.

She cannot be timid any longer, however—not if she wants to rescue her marriage, still in its infancy. So all day, she has drawn from the well of anger simmering deep within her, the one that has formed in response her husband's blind selfishness. It propels her into recklessness.

She removes from her waist the gold belt that cinches her costume, a lovely fitted robe made of draped silks in rust-red and cobalt. Then she peels off those fabrics, too, and drapes them over the screen until the garment can be returned to wardrobe. Finally she reaches back to unlace her corset, all the while hoping that Erik has both arrived and stayed to watch.

With a glance to ensure that her loveseat is in line with the mirror, Christine sits and slowly, delicately peels off her stockings, discarding them among the growing pile of clothing atop the screen. Then she stands and wiggles her toes against the soft woolen rug beneath her feet.

Now, clad in only her thin white chemise and drawers, she walks up to the mirror and stares directly into the glass. Now, she is calling him out, summoning him through that glass portal. Turnabout, after all, is fair play. She parts her rouged lips, ever so slightly, before running the tip of her tongue along the bottom one.

She is met with continued stillness and silence. She is forced to abandon her small hope that he will burst in and save her from this ridiculous charade.

Her fingers quiver as she pulls the chemise over her head, revealing her pale breasts and abdomen, but she does not once break eye contact with her reflection. She tosses the garment aside without so much as a glance. She trails the fingertips of one hand down her bare sternum, through that narrow valley between delicate slopes, her breaths becoming shallower with each passing second.

Finally, she slides the drawers over her hips and down her thighs until she can step out of them and discard them as well. There she stands, flesh bared to the mirror, for what seems like hours but is, in actuality, closer to five seconds. Erik still does not show himself.

Christine swallows. Part two, then.

She turns on her heels—affording her husband an ample view of her backside, if he is even there—and moves to recline on the loveseat opposite the mirror. She lies back with her head on one armrest so that the mirror is off to her side; her knees are bent and raised to obscure that most intimate of places from his gaze.

Her heart beats so wildly that it almost hurts, and her face flushes with preemptive embarrassment as she trails one hand down the center of her body, down to that apex that he cannot see. Never has she been so brazen in front of him. Some part of her worries that he will find her altogether too wanton and only spurn her further. But when her fingers find the locus that makes her body thrum with gratification, she can think of nothing but how desperately she craves his touch.

Eyelids flutter shut. Fingers move. Lips part, and breaths quicken. Erik's name drifts from her mouth in a breathless moan, and she imagines that those are his bony fingers creating such delicious friction.

Her hand is suddenly batted aside, and the cool digits sliding between her legs tell her that she must no longer imagine. She gasps at the urgent pressure of his thumb against her, at the long finger that simultaneously slips inside of her. Both fingers move in firm, rhythmic strokes. She opens her eyes.

A pair of wide golden irises stare back, blazing with intention. Their owner kneels at her side, clad in his impeccably tailored black tailcoat and slacks. The stiff, dark cloth that masks his face cannot eclipse his desire, which only spurs her on in her pursuit of pleasure. She has never seen him quite so ravenous, this man who has only ever bedded her with apprehension and gentle reverence.

His spindly fingers move even faster now, both within and against her, and she writhes under his touch. There is a nagging thought at the back of her mind: what if he intends only to satisfy her, and take nothing for himself? It is better than nothing, she supposes, but it is still not the full intimacy that she has sought.

She watches Erik lean toward her, anticipating his kiss, but instead that thin mouth latches onto her bare breast. He circles and teases its center with lips and tongue and teeth, with gentle tugs and suction, until a whimper escapes her lips. In response, he hums in appreciation and redoubles his efforts. His fingers never stop moving all the while. Her ecstasy builds quickly until, with an arch of her back and a loud gasp, she surrenders to the sensory onslaught.

He releases her breast with a soft, wet pop, his amber eyes glittering as her legs tremble against his slowing hand. The other hand rises to cup her cheek. "Oh, sweet angel," he murmurs, and with his thumb he sweeps away an errant lock of hair. "Erik does not deserve you."

Christine shakes her head. "Please," she begs. "I have missed you so."

"Not here." To her dismay, he stands. At such an angle, he towers over her like a dark spire. But once he extends a hand to help her up, he moves that cool palm to the small of her back and guides her to the dressing-table, where he hoists her up so that she sits on the short edge. It occurs to her that the loveseat is perhaps too short to accommodate his frame.

"How foolish I was," he says, "to think that I could keep myself from you. Especially after such a performance!" He draws her face to his own and kisses her.

She meets his lips eagerly. Reedy fingers thread through her hair, snaking across her scalp, and a small moan slips from her larynx. He drinks it in, and for a moment it seems that he might swallow her whole with the intensity of his kiss.

At last he breaks away, her name escaping his lips as a near-groan. " _Christine_." His hands fly to his trouser fastenings, working at them with desperate speed, and then he pulls her hips to the edge of the vanity and plunges into her without a moment's hesitation.

She gasps at his forceful urgency, teetering backward only to catch herself with extended arms. There she remains, leaning back with palms splayed against the surface. She manages to hook her legs around his slender waist as he rocks against her, and she smiles at the resulting friction between them, at the way he briefly closes his eyes while a groan rumbles low in his throat. His fingertips dig almost painfully into the juncture between her hipbone and back, and she finds that she does not dislike it.

This is not the man to whom she has grown accustomed in bed. This version of him is something far more primal, and though she adores his characteristic gentleness, she enjoys this, too.

Erik's golden eyes flash open and alight on her once more. Bony wrists jut out of his black tailcoat sleeves as his spidery hands reach up to grab her breasts. They linger only long enough to gauge the heft and softness of the tender flesh there, to rake thumbs across the sensitive tips, and then they careen down her bare abdomen. When they latch onto her hips again, he begins to pull her hard against him in time with his thrusts. Over and over, she bites her lip to keep from crying out.

Oh, how she has missed this—missed _him_. Who could have foreseen how intensely she would come to love a sullen corpse? But no, he is very much alive, and the warm flesh driving into her is an ardent reminder of that fact. The thought that she and Erik have the power to _create_ life, together, sends a rush of adrenaline flooding through her. She wants that, and she wants _him_ to want it.

And then she spills over that rapturous precipice a second time, unable to stop the cry that bursts from her throat as her legs clench around him. He does not seem to notice, or care. He plants a palm on her chest to guide her back, until she is lying along the length of the table, and he leans into her so fiercely that her legs are forced apart. The resulting position is lewd, and scandalous, and it feels _so good_ , and all she can do is reach behind her head to dig her fingernails into the far edge of the dressing-table—now creaking from his efforts—so that she is not driven off of the surface as he slams into her. He anchors his hands on her breasts. She relishes the sensation of being consumed.

The new angle almost immediately undoes him. He cries out, too—quieter than she—and moves to hold her hips again as he spends himself inside of her. Then all is quiet while he catches his breath, and his arms fall limply to his sides. When he finally withdraws and buttons up his trousers, Christine pushes herself to a sitting position.

He is only too happy to receive her. He pulls her to his chest, wraps his arms around her shoulders, and kisses the crown of her head. "Oh, Christine," he breathes. "My dear, sweet, loving Christine. I am so sorry."

She revels in his embrace, for a time. Then she pulls back; she has to know. "And what is it, exactly, that you are apologizing for?"

He angles his head down and away, as he so often does when he feels sheepish. "I have not...come to you, as a man should come to his wife. Oh, Christine, you must believe that I never meant to spurn you!"

And then she is back to her bashful self, offering only a small nod and a timid reply. "Of course. I understand." But he has still not addressed the crux of the problem, and she is not sure how to discuss it again.

His luminous eyes are suddenly upon her, his gaze steadier than she has ever seen. "How sweet and good you are," he says, and he blankets her hands with his own. "I could scarcely believe my eyes as I watched you through the mirror, but to know the lengths that you would go to for even the lowliest of men, a corpse, a dog at your feet..." His eyes are watering now, but he smiles. "I am certain that no child of ours should ever go unloved or unwanted."

She slides off of the dressing-table in order to stand before him. "And neither shall you," she says. She wraps her arms around him, pressing pale flesh to dark cloth, and she smiles at their reflection in the mirror.


End file.
